‘Do you want a receipt?’
Munger shook his head vehemently and laid a finger alongside his nose. Nassir’s smile was now confident and he pushed his chair back and stood up. ‘I’ll come to your room as soon as I get back.’
It was two hours later and Munger was lying on his bed and almost dozing off when he heard the conspiratorial tap on the door.
Nassir came into the room wearing a pimp’s expression. He accepted a glass of Scotch and sat on the only chair. Munger sat on the bed, facing him. Immediately Nassir passed him the little square of folded paper.
‘I have good news, Mr Munger. These diamonds are very good quality. Not the best, you understand - a little imperfect - but still valuable. They are each slightly under one carat and my friend - my uncle’s friend - can offer you $10,000 for each of them . . . each of them, Mr Munger. That’s $40,000. It’s a very good price. You won’t get better anywhere. Not even in Beirut.’
Munger was well pleased. He calculated that Nassir would have to share whatever profit he made with the dealer, so it meant that for around $12,000 he was prepared to risk his position, maybe his life, by committing an illegal act. He kept the pleasure out of his voice as he said coldly:
‘Those diamonds each weigh exactly one carat and they are all perfect internally flawless “D” colour. Their wholesale value is at least $16,000 each. At least. You were trying to cheat me.’
Nassir showed no alarm. His eyes narrowed. ‘If you knew their value why did you ask me to find out? What are you up to?’
‘I’m up to finding out if you will take a big risk for a lot of money.’
The Arab leaned forward. ‘How big a risk - and how much money?’
Munger chose not to elaborate on the risk. A good salesman only emphasises the positive. Anyway, Nassir would quickly quantify the risks for himself.
The diamonds, with a total value of $64,000, will be yours, Ahmed, in exchange for some information.’
Nassir smiled but his eyes were cold. ‘You’re a spy.’
‘So are you.’
‘Yes, but only in a minor way. I cannot believe that any information I have can be worth so much money.’
‘No,’ Munger agreed. ‘You will have to get it.’
‘Ah. And therein lies the risk.’
‘Precisely, but it is not so great.’
‘Who do you work for? The CIA?’
Munger smiled and spread his hands in a throw-away gesture. Nassir nodded and smiled again.
‘I thought so. The British would never pay money like that. What do you want to know?’
There’s a ship called the “SS Elmsland”. It will arrive in Fao within two or three days. Its cargo will be immediately unloaded and sent by truck to an unknown destination. I want to know that destination.’
‘What is the cargo?’
‘I don’t know.’
Nassir guessed that he was lying. He also guessed that the cargo would be arms and munitions.
‘It will be very difficult,’ he said. ‘Fao is a restricted area. Even for me.’
‘I know. But the cargo will have to be unloaded from the ship and. then reloaded onto the trucks. There will be at least four of them. So there will be four drivers in the convoy. Maybe even two to a truck. You could get the information from any one of them. Maybe even from the stevedores at the port. Many of them come from Basrah - surely you can locate some of them.’
‘It’s possible,’ Nassir agreed thoughtfully. ‘But it will be expensive.’
‘You can buy a lot with $64,000,’ Munger said and then threw in the clincher. ‘You will have two of the diamonds now and the other two in Baghdad, before I leave the country. That will be in less than a week. If your information is accurate and proves useful I will add a bonus of two more diamonds of the same value.’
In the blink of an eyelid Nassir calculated the total of $96,000, less the the few Dinars he would have to pay some truck driver for the information.
‘It’s a deal?’ Munger asked.
‘It’s a deal,’ came the reply.
Munger stood up and reached for his empty glass:
‘Let’s have a drink on it.’
Seven hundred miles away in her apartment in Beirut, Janine Lesage was also making a deal and, at 5,000 Lebanese Pounds, it was a lot cheaper than Munger’s.
‘Colonel’ Jamil Mahmoud was not a real colonel, but he did lead one of Beirut’s small private armies, and he was discreet. His ‘army’ of one hundred and fifty assorted thugs normally protected the person and property of a wealthy Lebanese industrialist, but Mahmoud was in the habit of hiring out sections of it on a random basis to anyone who could pay the price.
Janine Lesage needed a dozen men, under a reliable leader, to kidnap Melim Jaheen, hold him for a day or two while she extricated information, and then dispose of him.
The signal had come in from Paris the night before. In essence it informed her that a top Mossad agent, code-named ORANGE BLUE was operating in Iraq. Her instructions were to liaise with the Iraqi Mukhabarat and locate and nullify this agent. Nullify being a euphemism for eliminate. Her course of action was obvious: she knew that Melim Jaheen was more than likely a Mossad agent. He could well know the identity of ORANGE BLUE. She should, of course, have immediately contacted Sami Asaf in Baghdad and used him to spearhead her actions. She had not done so for several reasons. Firstly, he would almost certainly have used his friends in the PLO to pick up Jaheen and work on him and, from experience, she knew that they would only be concerned with their own interests. Secondly, she wanted to bring off a big coup all by herself, both to impress SDECE headquarters and to cock a snook at Sami Asaf. Of late their relationship had cooled considerably. This was partly due to his spending nearly all his time in Baghdad and partly due to a growing antagonism between them. It had really started with the killing of Duff Paget. Months later there had been an inevitable leak from breakaway elements in the PLO and the Americans had discovered that the Mukhabarat had been behind it. With uncommon zeal the CIA had exacted revenge, killing four Mukhabarat agents in various parts of the Middle East. Sami Asaf had been very unhappy. He was even more unhappy about the assassination of Professor Yahia el Mashad in Paris and the sabotage of parts of the reactor and the subsequent delays. He heaped scorn on the incompetence of SDECE, who were supposed to be guarding against such things and he questioned the effectiveness of their help in Iraq if such things happened on their own doorstep. Finally they had argued bitterly when Sami had used his influence to help Munger cover the war in Iraq. Her hatred for Munger was like a lump of coal, smouldering white, in her belly. She had begged Sami not to help him - in fact pleaded with him to use his influence in the opposite direction. She had been unsuccessful. Sami liked and admired Munger, and later took delight in telling her how effective he was in presenting to the whole world, through his photography, the Iraqi side of the war.
Sami Asaf had not been to Beirut for three months. She had visited him in Baghdad twice, but they had been frustrating meetings and totally devoid of sex. On his territory he was confident, even arrogant, and with a curiously inverted set of morals would not be unfaithful to his wife so close to home.
In fact her sex life had been frustrating all round. She had a brief fling with Gordon Frazer but it was, for her, unsatisfying and she guessed for him merely another notch on his bedpost. Apart from that she had indulged in a few one night stands which had only served to illuminate her frustrations.
So it was a bitter, hate-filled woman who negotiated with ‘Colonel’ Jamil Mahmoud. She settled the details: he would get half the money now and the balance on completion. She did not tell him that Jaheen was a suspected Mossad agent in case he, or one of his men, leaked the story to the PLO. Consequently, when he proposed merely to go out and pick Jaheen up wherever he was found she had difficulty in dissuading him. She knew all about the competence of Mossad agents. He would certainly be armed and probably within a covert protective screen of his own people. It w
ould be suicidal to try to take him either at his office or his home. She knew of several restaurants and bars where he ate and drank. She would have permanent watches on these places and try to catch him in an exposed position. In the meantime she had arranged a safe house in the Moslem-held port of Damour. He would be taken there for interrogation.
So the deal was done and she handed over 2,500 Lebanese Pounds and suggested that they seal the deal with a Scotch.
‘Colonel’ Jamil Mahmoud pocketed the money but refused the drink. He was a good Moslem. He suggested instead, eyeing her hungrily, that they consummate the deal in a more pleasurable manner and one that was not against his religion. She politely refused. Although fit and wiry, he was over sixty years old and she guessed that the pleasure would travel down a one-way street.
It was the next night when Ahmed Nassir again tapped on Munger’s door and again slid in like a lubricated pimp. He tried to appear calm and casual but his face betrayed his excitement and greed.
‘We’ve been fortunate,’ he said as Munger gave him a drink and ushered him to the chair. ‘I located a truck driver who has just arrived from Baghdad. He is part of a convoy which will convey the cargo of the “Elmsland” to its destination.’ He took a large gulp of his scotch as Munger watched him closely, it was very costly. I had to give him money before he would talk - a great deal.’
‘Go on,’ Munger urged impatiently. ‘What did you find out?’
Nassir paused for effect, then said: ‘The ship will arrive the day after tomorrow, in the morning. There are five Volvo F12 trucks already gathered here in Basrah to transport its cargo. Security is very tight. There will be troops in each truck and the convoy will be accompanied by Military Police. The roads will be cleared ahead of it. The driver does not know what the cargo is.’ He gave Munger a hard look. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I don’t. You know how it is in this business. They tell you only what they need to.’
Nassir nodded in agreement. ‘Well, the convoy will go to Kifri. That’s a city a hundred miles north of Baghdad. They pass through Kifri and about five miles further on there’s a military base. That’s where they go. The driver has been there before with other shipments. I can show you exactly where it is on the map.’
Munger tried to keep the relief but of his voice. ‘When will they get there?’
‘Well, it’s four hundred miles from Fao. They usually stop overnight near Al Hillah, which is about half way.’
‘Good. So we have four days.’
‘We?’
Munger smiled grimly. ‘Yes. First thing in the morning we go to Baghdad. I will need a day to arrange papers to visit the northern war zone. Kifri is only forty miles from the Iranian border; it would be natural for me to visit the area.’
Nassir was looking very uncomfortable. ‘My part of the deal is finished,’ he said. ‘I’ve already taken enough risks.’
Munger took a calculated gamble. ‘All right. But in that case you won’t get the bonus. I said only if your information proves useful. It will not do so unless I get to Kifri.’
Again Munger watched as avarice and fear waged a war across Nassir’s face. Finally he asked:
‘How will you get papers? No one is allowed up there.’
‘I have friends in Baghdad.’
Nassir studied him carefully then said: ‘All right. I’ll come with you to Kifri, but no further. From Kifri you’re on your own.’
Munger nodded in agreement, then Nassir asked:
‘After that you will leave Iraq?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will never come back?’
‘Never.’
‘Good.’ Nassir stood and walked over to the bottle of Scotch and said: ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Chapter 17
It is a myth that Intelligence agents, or anyone else, can sense the presence of danger, but it is true that they can become aware of being followed. This is not instinct but training and experience. It is a subconscious monitoring of the immediate environment - a monitoring that sets off a mental alarm bell at the first sign of abnormality: a face seen too often, a figure moving in tandem pace. A man looking at a newspaper but not reading it. A moving car or van that does not conform to the traffic flow. Misha Wigoda was a skilled and experienced agent but his alarm bell did not ring because he was not being followed.
He ate an early lunch at a small restaurant in a narrow cul-de-sac in Beirut’s Fayadi Ya district. He came occasionally because, in his experience, it served the best kebbe in the Lebanon. It was also one of those places on which Janine Lesage had placed permanent surveillance. Within a minute of Misha Wigoda entering the restaurant a man in a coffee shop across the street was on the telephone informing her that Melim Jaheen was alone and unprotected.
Misha ate hurriedly because in the afternoon he was going to the port of Jounieh to talk to a Phalangist agent about future supplies of small arms. His assistant, Tamar Feder, alias Fuad Tawfir, was to pick him up in his car on the corner of Rue Hassel in an hour.
As he enjoyed the food his mind ranged into the future. When Munger’s mission was complete, Misha had been promised three months’ leave. Tamar Feder would take over ORANGE 14 in his absence. It would be a well-deserved leave, and the first for many months. Misha had been feeling the strain. It was not just the mounting tension caused by the Iraqi situation, but more the effect of living in a hostile environment for over three years and encasing himself in a false identity. There was never any chance to relax, to get drunk, or to talk easily with friends or even strangers. It was the constant need to be vigilant that stretched the nerves. He was overdue for leave and consequently his senses were strained and their perception dulled. He would travel to Europe and North America on his leave and be a mere tourist and eat a lot and drink a lot and maybe get lucky and attract some women, and simply have a damned good time and charge his batteries.
Munger was never far from his thoughts. Only a few hours ago a courier had arrived from Baghdad with a signal giving the final destination of the yellowcake shipment and the information that Munger would try to get his ‘snap’ within three days.
The courier system was working well. The ORANGE network now had six of them travelling in and out of Baghdad on a fixed rota. They were genuinely involved in business and they traded at a level which justified their frequent visits. Their role was to pick up and deposit messages at a series of constantly changing ‘mail drops’. Munger himself never visited the drops - that was done by his Kurdish friends. The ‘cut out’ was total.
Misha finished his meal, quickly drank a coffee and, with a nod of appreciation to the fat proprietor, went out into the hot and crowded lane.
Two hundred yards away Tamar Feder pulled into the kerb, mopped the sweat from his face and once again resolved to tackle Misha about getting an air-conditioned car. After an hour’s driving in Beirut a man was good for nothing.
Automatically his eyes scanned the bustling street. Fifty yards in front of him two men were unloading crates from the back of a van. Across the street was parked a grey Ford truck. The driver was leaning out of the cab arguing with a shopkeeper, irritated by having his display window obscured. Being lunchtime the traffic was sparse but there were many pedestrians and street hawkers urging them to buy their wares.
He caught sight of Misha’s bald pate shining in the sun as he pushed his way through the crowd. Tamar was about to switch on the ignition when it happened. Later he was to remember how slick it had been:
Misha was abreast of the van. The men carrying a crate behind him dropped it, grabbed an arm each and simply slung him into the van and dived in behind him. He had no chance at all. The van’s doors closed and it immediately pulled out into the traffic. As Tamar turned the ignition key he heard a car accelerating behind him. He looked up to see a green Mercedes flashing by. There were two occupants. The passenger turned to look at him and he recognised from the file photographs the unmistakable features of Janine Lesage.
&n
bsp; He was close behind the Mercedes but he was too late. On the periphery of his vision he saw the truck moving diagonally across the street. The Mercedes passed in front of it but Tamar had no chance: his foot slammed onto the brake pedal and his arms came up to shield his face. It was not a bad crash and, apart from a cut on his chin, he was unhurt.
From that moment his actions followed a predetermined and rigid pattern. He had no thoughts of trying to follow and rescue Misha. The door of his car had popped open with the impact and Tamar dived out and into the stunned crowd and quickly put distance between himself and the accident. Two blocks away he waved down a taxi and fifteen minutes later was in a ‘safe house’ in the Ain Rummaneh district - a penthouse in a tall block of apartments. Its TV antennae on the roof doubled as a radio aerial and, within thirty minutes of the snatching of Misha Wigoda, Tamar was giving a full report to ORANGE headquarters in Limassol. He was told to remain in the safe house. His priority was to ensure that any messages to and from ORANGE BLUE continued to be transmitted.
He was desperate. He had understudied Misha Wigoda for over a year and had great respect for him. He wanted to comb Beirut for him, no matter what the risk, but his orders were explicit: his priority was ORANGE BLUE. Others would look for Wigoda. Others would close down the ORANGE network in Beirut.
He asked whether he should try to send a message to ORANGE BLUE warning him that Wigoda had been taken. Again he was told that ‘others’ would handle it. He felt sick.
Ruth was half an hour late but vividly happy. As she swept into the Amathus Restaurant she saw Walter at a corner table. A waiter was just putting a plate of hors d’oeuvres in front of him. He spotted her and pushed himself to his feet and, as she reached the table, said sternly:
‘I thought I was going to suffer the final indignity of being stood up.’
She kissed his cheek and apologised and then scolded him for starting without her.
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